


I've been dyin' to tell you

by lucifucker



Series: a little less sixteen candles [2]
Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Angst, Found Families, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vampires, author is incredible at tagging, joe being a whimp, mutual angsting, vampire feuds but like not really, william being a dick but only temporarily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:33:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The snowflakes keep catching in Andy’s hair, as he walks, and it’s the only reason Joe knows it’s winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've been dyin' to tell you

The snowflakes keep catching in Andy’s hair, as he walks, and it’s the only reason Joe knows it’s winter. That and the way Andy’s breath shows in the air in front of him, hot puffs of steam that dissipate just as quickly as they appear. 

  
  


He’s wearing a jacket, but it’s more to keep up appearances than anything else. Patrick says its important that he not look like a ‘fucking weirdo all the time’, plus, he looks fucking cool. 

  
  


Ha. Cool. 

  
  


He doesn’t feel cold, but he definitely feels warmth, in the press of Andy’s arm against his where they’re linked together, and what came off his lips when he kissed Joe’s cheek. Joe prefers holding hands, but it’s fucking cold, and  _ he’s  _ fucking cold, just by nature, and he refuses to let Andy get frostbite in the name of hand-holding. 

  
  


Fuck Chicago and it’s fucking bullshit winters. They’re almost in the midwest. Sort of. 

  
  


Christmas is imminent, which is clear, because the entire South Side is decked out with about sixteen million christmas lights (Joe’s been counting) and enough tinsel to crush a small elephant (that one’s an inference more than an observation but there is a whole fuck-ton of it). There are carolers fucking everywhere.

  
  


His phone buzzes, and when he pulls it out, it’s Brendon. Again. He stops, for a second, and stares at it, and Andy stops with him. 

  
  


He doesn’t say anything, but Joe knows he knows, because his arm slides out of Joe’s, and his gloved fingers curl around the back of his neck. They press just a little closer together, and Joe bites his lip and presses ‘end’. 

  
  


Andy kisses him with chapped lips, and Joe pretends it’s okay. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Andy’s not allowed to sleep with Joe, anymore, at least until the summer comes around again, because one morning in mid-november they fell asleep tangled together, and woke up with Andy’s lips blue and his fingers shaking and Joe leaped out of the coffin before the sun had fully gone down and ran as fast as he could to Patrick’s room, begging him to  _ wake up, Patrick, please, wake up, please-- _ before they realized it was just mild hypothermia. 

  
  


So now, Joe sleeps alone in the coffin, or more accurately, Joe tries to sleep and fails and crawls in with Pete after about an hour of rolling back and forth and contemplating how fucking small this fucking box is. Which doesn’t really make sense, because with two of them shoved into Pete’s very much normal sized coffin (Joe’s is the kind made for fat guys and people who inexplicably want to be buried in one casket) it should be too small. 

  
  


But with Pete pressed against his back, and Pete’s breathing in his ear, it’s easier. 

  
  


Fucking vampire bullshit. 

  
  


\--

  
  


The door opens, and Gabe’s head shoots up from his book, watching as William slips inside, and shuts the door before leaning against it. The line of his shoulders is taut, and his eyes are wide, and hard, and Gabe loves him. He sets the book to the side, and shifts on the bed, uncrossing his legs, and patting his thighs. 

  
  


“C’mere.” William looks at him for a long moment, and Gabe can see where he’s worrying his tongue over his fangs. Eventually, William’s shoulders slump, and he all but falls forward, crawling into Gabe’s lap, and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Gabe wraps both arms around his thin waist, and pulls him close, long fingers curling easily around the curves of his ribs as William’s elbows settle on his shoulders. 

  
  


“Long day?” Gabe murmurs, and William nods, slowly, pulling back to kiss Gabe, long, and hard, and deep, and Gabe sinks into it for a second, until he feels the snag of something against his lip, and jerks back. 

  
  


“William.” He says lowly, and William looks confused for a second before his eyes narrow, and he bares his teeth (and fangs) at Gabe. 

  
  


“It’s part of me, Gabe.” 

  
  


Gabe huffs out a breath, and shakes his head. 

  
  


“It’s not--about that, Bill, you know that, I just--”

  
  


“ Just  _ what. _ ” 

  
  


“ You’ve killed people.” He says, staring at the bed under William’s elbow. “You’ve--you’ve killed people, and hurt people, you hurt  _ Pete-- _ ”

  
  


“I didn’t hurt--”

  
  


“ Biting his neck and turning him into a fucking vampire is fucking hurting him, William.” Gabe knows his voice is a little harsh, and he knows he should be able to get over this, be able to forgive William for this, because it’s  _ William,  _ and he’ll always forgive him, but  _ god _ does he hate this. 

  
  


There’s a long, poignant silence, and then a soft sucking sound, and when Gabe looks up, the fangs are gone. William strokes the tips of his fingers over Gabe’s cheeks, and shakes his head. 

  
  


“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and kisses Gabe’s cheeks. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I just--sometimes, I can’t--” 

  
  


“I know.” Gabe takes William’s face in both hands, and kisses him, soft, and sweet. “I know, baby, it’s okay.”

  
  


\--

  
  


Pete comes out of his room around six with his hair perfectly manicured and his eyeliner exquisitely smudged and Joe gapes. 

  
  


“Dude.” Pete raises his eyebrows.

  
  


“Dude what?” 

  
  


“How?” Pete smirks, and holds up his phone. 

  
  


“Front-face camera solves all your ills, man.”

  
  


Joe scowls. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Joe comes home from hunting with Pete to find Patrick cooking something foul-smelling on the stove, and blanches. 

  
  


“Hey, babe, what’s--uh--for dinner?” Patrick looks up, and makes eye contact with him for a long moment. 

  
  


“Italian.” Pete blinks, and then it clicks, and he sets his jaw and crosses his arms. 

  
  


“What did I do?” Patrick blinks, and shakes his head, the picture of innocence. 

  
  


“Why do you think you did something?” He asks, and Joe snickers at them. 

  
  


“Italian.” 

  
  


Patrick shrugs, and jerks his head nonchalantly while he stirs the sauce on the stove. 

  
  


“Figure it out, genius.” Pete growls, and stalks back toward his room, probably in the hopes of escaping from not only the angry boyfriend, but the smell of all the fucking garlic. Joe does the same, but literally just because of the garlic. 

  
  


God, he hates garlic.

  
  


\--

  
  


“Babe.”

  
  


“...”

  
  


“ _ Babe. _ ” 

  
  


Silence. Joe thunks his head against Andy’s wall. Apparently, Patrick wasn’t the only one who got pissed. The pasta sauce had been one thing. The cross, on  his fucking door, that’s enough to make Joe a little uncomfortable just being near it (he had to bribe Patrick to fucking move the thing) but this is excessive. 

  
  


“Andy, this is ridiculous.”

  
  


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Andy says smoothly, and turns the page of his book, reaching up to adjust his labret. 

  
  


His fucking  _ silver labret.  _

  
  


“Andy, come on, talk to me.” Joe pleads, crawling up onto the bed, and into the drummers lap, doing a little dance inwardly when he willingly sets the book aside. He straddles Andy’s hips, and rests his forearms on his shoulders. “Please? Babe. Babe, please.” 

  
  


Andy looks down, for a minute, and leans forward, resting his forehead on Joe’s collarbone, and Joe strokes his fingers through his hair, slowly, and waits. Eventually, there’s the movement of Andy shucking the silver rings he’d been wearing, and his hands slide up under Joe’s shirt, over his back, splaying across his spine like they belong there, and Joe thinks maybe they do. 

  
  


“ I miss sleeping with you.” He mumbles, almost incomprehensibly, and Joe bites his lip. “And...it...it fucking  _ sucks,  _ Joe, and I don’t--” Andy shakes his head, and sighs. “There’s gonna be more stuff like this. There are gonna be times when--when I can’t keep up with you, or you have to be too careful with me, and I don’t…” Joe’s stomach is twisting into knots and he can  _ feel _ his eyes starting to sting, but he grits his teeth through it. 

  
  


“So...you want to break up.” Andy jerks back, and Joe startles. 

  
  


“What? No!” Andy looks stricken, and Joe shakes his head. 

  
  


“Then what are you--”

  
  


“I want you to turn me.” Joe freezes.

  
  


Six words, and his heart is hammering in his chest. He can feel his fangs itching to extend, every inch of him feels like its on fire, and not in the went-out-in-the-sun-by-accident-way, and just like that, it’s all perfectly clear, every inch of Andy’s skin and the way his blood is pulsing underneath it and the beat of his heart and  _ god  _ Joe  _ wants,  _ and--

  
  


“Absolutely not.” His own voice is half of what breaks him out of the daze, and he shakes his head, keeps his voice as firm as he can. “No fucking way.” 

  
  


“Joe--”

  
  


“ _ No. _ ” 

  
  


“Can we at least--”

  
  


“ It  _ sucks _ , Andy. It sucks, and not just in a ‘ha-ha, vampires suck’ way. It really fucking sucks.” Joe shakes his head incredulously. “And you’d have to drink blood!” 

  
  


“You don’t drink blood.”

  
  


“There’s blood in the gross vampire smoothie. Like, pigs blood, or something. I dont know. I don’t make it.” 

  
  


Andy makes a slightly sour face, and Joe rolls his eyes. 

  
  


“You didn’t think this through.” 

  
  


“No, I didn’t.” 

  
  


“Yeah. Well. Next time talk to me before you go all, like. Sadistic vampire hunter on me.”

  
  


Andy nudges Joe’s nose with his own, and kisses him softly for a second before Joe winces and pulls back. 

  
  


“Babe? Silver.”

  
  


“Oh, shit, whoops.”

  
  


\--

  
  


“I have to keep you safe.”

  
  


“Yeah? Is keeping me here keeping me safe?” 

  
  


“Yes.” 

  
  


“William...Bilvy....” Gabe slides his fingers up into William's hair, and shakes his head. “I love you, but—I can't stay here.”

  
  


William looks down, at where both his hands are resting against Gabe’s chest. 

  
  


“Why? I’m here.” 

Gabe sighs long-sufferingly, and shakes his head, turning away back toward his bed. 

  
  


“Forget it.”

  
  


\--

  
  


Joe knows for a fact that most days, when Pete sleeps, he relives the night he was turned. 

  
  


Joe doesn’t remember much of his. He remembers a pain in his chest, and Pete’s voice in his ear, begging him not to go, and he remembers the cold. 

  
  


Joe remembers the cold every minute of every day because it never left. That’s just the way it is, now. 

  
  


But when Pete dreams, Joe knows he dreams of Gabe’s laughing face and the smell of cheap beer and the way the christmas lights had looked like fairies, hung across his back yard.

  
  


And Pete dreams of the screaming, thrashing way he’d tried to escape, the way he’d sobbed, and begged, and prayed for William to let go, Pete dreams of the deep, gnawing pain in his throat, the rip and tear of William’s teeth in his skin, biting through muscle and tendons and the way it had only been made worse by his struggle to get away. 

  
  


Joe knows this because some nights, he dreams it, too, when Pete’s curled around him in the coffin and the dreams are especially vivid, things tend to leak through. 

  
  


They wake up together, always in unison and Joe holds Pete as he shakes. 

  
  


Apparently there’s no rest for anyone, even if they’re not wicked. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Joe’s phone rings while he’s in the middle of crushing garlic, and he doesn’t look at the screen before flipping it open. 

  
  


Big mistake. 

  
  


“Lo?” 

  
  


“Joe?” Fuck.

  
  


“Hey, Brendon.” 

  
  


“Oh my god, you picked up.” Brendon sounds so fucking genuinely relieved, and Joe’s stomach starts twisting itself into knots. 

  
  


“Uh. Yeah.” They haven’t spoken, since that night in the alley, since Brendon had clung to Joe like he was a raft in the ocean and said he was sorry so many times it stopped sounding like a word. They parted with awkward smiles and pats on the back, and it’s not that Joe hasn’t forgiven Brendon. He has. 

  
  


It’s just that there’s a conversation, coming, where they talk about how they feel about it and how sorry Brendon is, again, and how it was all Brendon’s fault, and Joe doesn’t...want...that. And it’s kind of weird that Brendon keeps calling because when last Joe checked Brendon wasn’t really the biggest feelings hound, either, but he still is, and he’s still not going to do it. 

  
  


Because it  _ wasn’t _ Brendon’s fault and he’s over it, he really, seriously is, and talking about it more isn’t going to make it better, so he’s been avoiding Brendon’s calls and pretending that if he doesn’t think about his problems, he won’t have to deal with them.

  
  


Stupid Joe. You always have to deal with your problems. Especially the ones that stabbed you. 

  
  


“ How--how are you?” Brendon stutters out, and Joe feels even worse, because now not only is he an asshole, he’s an asshole who made Brendon fucking  _ nervous _ , and that’s a feat in and of itself. 

  
  


“Um--okay, I guess.” He picks at the garlic on the table with distaste and shrugs a little. “What, um. What about you? How’s stuff? How’s Ryan.” Brendon’s quiet for a long minute, and Joe thinks for a second that maybe he’s hung up on him, and then;

  
  


“We broke up.” 

  
  


“ You  _ what _ ?” 

  
  


“W-well, he broke up. With me.” 

  
  


“ _ Why _ ?” A soft sniff travels through the line, and Joe can almost see Brendon ducking his head down and pushing his hair out of his forehead and  _ fuck _ , he hates that he misses that. 

  
  


“Um. I don’t.” He cuts off, takes a deep breath and, Joe wishes he hadn’t been such an asshole, really, really does. “He said it wasn’t--because of us, a-and that it was just cause of the whole...vampire….thing?” Joe nods, and Brendon sniffs again. “But...I don’t know, it didn’t really...feel like that. And I was--I was gonna call Pete, you know? Cause whenever--whenever this stuff happens I used to call Pete, but…” but Pete hasn’t been answering Brendon’s calls either, which Joe knows, because Joe was there when Pete picked up the phone, told him to go fuck himself, and then hung up. 

  
  


And now, now it makes sense, that Brendon wasn’t calling for him, Brendon was calling for  _ Pete.  _

  
  


And really, Pete not talking to Brendon is, in its way, worse than Ryan not talking to Brendon, because Pete found Brendon, found this young, scared Vegas boy with no idea what he was doing and immediately became a newer, better big brother. 

  
  


When Brendon was sick and away from home, Pete made sure he had water and enough soup to drown him. When Brendon and Ryan fought, Brendon called Pete, and they’d talk, just talk, about whatever they needed to talk about, for as long as they needed to talk about it. Joe remembers night after hot midwestern night of coming back to their bus and finding Pete sitting with Brendon curled up against his side, sharing a beer and watching shit TV because they could. 

  
  


So the fact that Brendon called Pete on the heels of a breakup, confused, and scared, and thinking that maybe they were okay, and got told to go fuck himself, is really way worse than the breakup itself. 

  
  


“I’m so sorry.” Joe says, and means it, already peering around the living room of the ‘lair’ (Pete calls it a lair, Joe calls it a basement) looking for him. “Brendon, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” 

  
  


“It’s--it’s fine, really, I’m--fine, I just--” Joe nods, and wipes his hands before leaving the kitchen, headed toward the back bedrooms. 

  
  


“You needed your big buddy and he wasn’t there.” He says simply, and Brendon huffs out something that resembles a laugh. “Here, I’ll find him.” 

  
  


“Joe, wait, no, you don’t--” 

  
  


“Yes, I do.” He kicks at the bottom of Pete’s door until he groans from inside, and glares. “Wake up, asshole, you’ve got a phone call.”

  
  


“Who’zit?” 

  
  


“Just fucking get up.”  Pete makes a loud, disgruntled sound, and Joe leans against the wall next to his door. “I’ll make him talk to you if it kills me.” There’s a pungent, thick silence, and Joe winces. “Too soon?”

  
  


“You tell me.” 

  
  


“Maybe.”

  
  


“Yeah.” 

  
  


Pete opens the door and peers out at Joe, smudged shitty eyeliner and one of Patrick’s hoodies thrown on over old boxers, and Joe honestly doesn’t understand why people want to fuck this guy so badly. 

  
  


“Whazzat?” He mumbles, and Joe looks at him for a long moment.

  
  


“It’s Brendon.” He says softly, and Pete’s eyes widen. “He wants to talk to you.”

  
  


“ Why are you talking to  _ him _ ?” Pete hisses, and Joe flinches because it wasn’t exactly quiet and Brendon definitely heard it. 

  
  


“Because he’s my friend.” He shrugs. “And because I care about him, and so do you, so get over your shit and talk to him.” He holds out the phone and Pete shakes his head incredulously. 

  
  


“ My shit?  _ My  _ shit?” He shuts his door behind him, and rounds on Joe. “Are you fucking kidding me? He fucking  _ stabbed _ you!” 

  
  


“Yeah, and it wasn’t his fault, so I got the fuck over it. It’s time for you to do the same fucking thing.” Joe snaps, and Pete blinks. “He’s on the phone, right fucking now, because you were supposed to fucking take care of him, and you’re fucking sucking at it, okay?” 

  
  


Pete looks at him, for a while, and Joe stays as still and silent as he can because this is sometimes how Pete needs things. Quiet, and even, so he can think. 

  
  


The lines around Pete’s eyes ease up, just a little, and his shoulders sag as he reaches for the phone. Joe hands it to him without argument, and turns on his heel, walking back toward the kitchen. Pete’s voice is soft, softer than Joe usually hears it, as he closes his door.

  
  


“Hey, B.” He sighs, and Joe can’t help but listen, just to make sure. “Yeah, I miss you, too.” 

  
  


It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

  
  


\--

  
  


Gabe dials Pete’s number, for the fifteenth time, and hangs up. Again. 

  
  


He stares at the map William’s left splayed out over the table, a color-coded layout of Chicago, split up between Travie and them, and misses Jersey, where there’s his dad, and Ryland, and no fucking vampires. 

  
  


William’s asleep, splayed out over their bed and naked under the covers and Gabe loves him so much it fucking hurts. 

  
  


He dials Pete’s number, and whirls around, throws his phone as hard as he can at the wall, and stares at the hole its made in the plaster. 

  
  


He can’t do this.

  
  


\--

  
  


“Fuck me.”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“Please?” 

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“Joe.” Joe looks up, and Andy’s standing over him, hair falling into his face where he’s looking down, and jeans slung low on his hips because he’s an asshole and he knows Joe can’t look away when he does that. “Fuck me.” 

  
  


Joe rubs a hand over his face, and shakes his head, putting his book to the side. He’s sitting in Andy’s bed, reading Proust because Pete’s an asshole and won’t shut up about how important it is that he read it, and now Andy’s asking him to do something he absolutely cannot do. 

  
  


“ We’ve talked about this.” He says long-sufferingly, and Andy purses his lips, forcibly moves Joe’s arms out of the way, and settles down into his lap, straddling his hips with practiced ease, and  _ fuck _ , sometimes Joe forgets exactly how smooth and perfect all of Andy’s skin is. He settles his hands on Andy’s sides, and wants to reach out and bite the flesh there, just blunt teeth, no fangs, but doesn’t. 

  
  


“No. You talked. I listened.” Andy curls his arms around Joe’s neck, and leans down, his breath ghosting over his ear. “I’m done listening.” 

  
  


Joe tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. 

  
  


“What if I hurt you?” He rasps, and Andy shakes his head. 

  
  


“You won’t.” He shrugs, and brushes his lips over Joe’s jaw. “You haven’t, yet.” 

  
  


“Yet.”

  
  


“You won’t.” Andy’s so warm, where they’re pressed together, his fingers curling into the hair at the back of Joe’s head, and he wants so bad it hurts. “It can be my christmas present.” Joe huffs out a laugh. 

  
  


“I feel like it’s not a christmas present if we’re both getting the same thing out of it.” 

  
  


“Our christmas present, then. To each other.” He pulls back, and rests their foreheads together, fingers sliding down to cup Joe’s neck. “I trust you. Please?” 

  
  


Joe doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t stop Andy when his fingers dance down to his belt, unbuckling it in one smooth, easy motion, and and slide down under the waistline of his jeans. He’s already half-hard, just the thought of Andy under him was enough to do that, and the whole hot-guy-in-your-lap thing is also not exactly helping. 

  
  


Andy kisses him, long, and slow, and wet, and Joe arches up into his hand without thinking about it, slides his hands up Andy’s back to drag him closer and grind against him, and Andy’s breath hitches, just slightly. 

  
  


“Okay.” Joe gasps, nodding erratically as Andy squeezes, slightly. “Okay, alright, okay, I’ll fuck you.” 

  
  


Andy grins, and bites Joe’s bottom lip, and Joe can’t help but slide a hand down into his jeans, and grab a handfull of his ass. 

  
  


“You’re an idiot.” Andy mumbles, and Joe nods, absently, reaching blindly for the lube. 

  
  


“I know.” He shakes his head. “I know! I’m a meatball. What’s wrong with me?” Andy kisses him, again, and shrugs. 

  
  


“You’re horny?” Andy grinds his hips down, and Joe shudders.

  
  


“I’m gonna die. You’re gonna kill me. With your--your fucking--sexy.” 

  
  


“I’m gonna kill you with my sexy.” Andy starts to laugh again, and Joe feels a spark of indignance, and shifts them, sliding his now thoroughly lube-d hand down to press a finger up into Andy in one fluid motion, which sure does shut him the fuck up, dissolving him into breathy moans and fingers curled tight in Joe’s hair. 

  
  


“Sorry, were we playing make fun of Joe? Or were we gonna fuck?” 

  
  


“Fuck. Fuck, now, fuck, definitely fuck.” Joe grins, really grins, happy, and excited, shifts, rolling Andy onto his back, and sliding his hand out of his jeans so he can work on getting them off. 

  
  


It’s a little fumbly, because it always is, because Joe’s literally incapable of doing anything with any degree of smoothness, but they both end up naked, pressed close with Andy’s legs wrapped around Joe and Joe pushing in, his whole body shaking as he does because he hasn’t been able to do this in so fucking long. 

  
  


And he moves and it’s amazing, it’s perfect, and Andy’s arms are tight around his neck and he’s making these soft, breathy sounds against Joe’s cheek, and every snap of his hips makes them both groan, and Joe’s starting to lose himself in the sounds Andy makes and how fucking tight he is around him and the feel of being this  _ close-- _

  
  


Which is great, really fucking great, until he feels the pull of his fangs against his gums. 

  
  


Joe wrenches himself back from where he’d had his face pressed into the crook of Andy’s neck, pulls out and bolts to the other end of the bed, breathing hard. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his jaw as tightly as he can and praying,  _ praying _ , that he can stop it, that he can hold it in. 

  
  


“Joe.” Andy murmurs, and Joe doesn’t move, doesn’t relax when Andy shifts closer, slides his fingers up into his hair, and cards them through it. “Joe, look at me? Please?” 

  
  


He opens his eyes and Andy’s right there, right in front of him, and Joe can see the line of his jugular, standing out of his neck, and hear the pump of his blood under the skin, and he barely has the mental wherewithal to grab his jeans before he’s running out of Andy’s room, full-tilt, knocking things over and rushing across the hallway and he hears Pete’s indignant screech as he does but he doesn’t care. 

  
  


He slams his door shut behind him and sinks down onto the floor, curls his knees up to his chest and holds his head in his hands because fuck, fuck,  _ fuck.  _

  
  


There’s the faint sound of Pete and Andy murmuring to each other, and Joe can hear footsteps. He reaches up and clicks the lock on his door, crawls into his coffin, and closes it. 

  
  


In here, there’s no one else, nothing else, that even exists, and normally the tiny space would scare him but at the moment it’s the only thing keeping him from screaming.

  
  


He closes his eyes, and lets the blackness take him. 

  
  


\--

  
  


The door is open. 

  
  


William gets back from a meeting with Travis, trying to organize border lines without crying because he misses him so fucking much it hurts, and Gabe’s door is wide open, and Gabe--

  
  


Is gone. The room’s empty, and the backpack William had packed for him when they’d come here is gone, and  _ Gabe _ is gone, and William might be hyperventilating a little bit. 

  
  


There’s a note on the table, written in Gabe’s scratchy, scrawled handwriting, and William picks it up with shaking hands. 

  
  


_ Bilvy-- _

  
  


_ Te amo más que el sol y las estrellas.  _

  
  


_ I can’t stay here. You know I can’t.  _

  
  


_ I’m going home.  _

  
  


_ You know you’re always welcome here, nene.  _

  
  


_ Love,  _

_ Gabey-baby.  _

  
  


William stares at the little scrap of notebook paper, stares at the map still sitting on the table, stares at the place where Gabe used to lie on the bed, and pulls out his cell. 

  
  


He stays still while it rings, and only moves when the line picks up. 

  
  


“Travie?” He knows his voice is small, and he knows he doesn’t sound like he’s supposed to, like the powerful dangerous vampire king or whatever the fuck these people expect him to be, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. “Can--can you come over?” 

  
  


There’s a long silence, from the other end, a little shuffling, and then the soft thunk of a car door shutting. 

  
  


“Ten minutes, Bilvy.” Travie’s voice is soft, and gentle, the way it used to be, and William can feel the tears starting to prick at the backs of his eyes. 

  
  


“I miss you.” He says, his voice cracking halfway through, and he hears Travie’s stuttered intake of breath. 

  
  


“I missed you, too.”

  
  


\--

  
  


Someone’s knocking on Joe’s coffin, and that’s sweet, and all, but he’s not fucking opening it. 

  
  


“Go away, Pete.”

  
  


“Not Pete.” He blinks, and raises his eyebrows in the dark.

  
  


“Patrick, what do you want?” 

  
  


“To talk to you?” 

  
  


Okay, maybe he’s opening it, and maybe he’s getting out and sitting on top, and maybe hes looking at Patrick where he’s sat cross-legged in front of Joe on the floor, but that’s beside the point. 

  
  


Patrick’s hat is crooked on his head, and he’s got his hands folded in his lap, and Joe knows what this means. This means they’re gonna  _ talk.  _

  
  


Joe fucking hates talking. About, like. Things. 

  
  


“Get it over with.” He sighs, and Patrick nods, because he’s an asshole, but he’s an understanding asshole. 

  
  


“Did you know that coconut water can be used as an emergency blood substitute, in transfusions?” He asks, looking up at Joe like he’s waiting for answer so Joe shakes his head. Patrick nods, again. “It has a lot of the same chemical properties, so in a pinch, it can work.” 

  
  


“Why are you telling me this?” 

  
  


“Because it means that there’s a vegan alternative for blood.” Patrick says simply, and Joe stiffens.

  
  


“Patrick, I’m not--” 

  
  


“Joe.” Patrick says softly, and he quiets down, almost on instinct, at this point, because when Patrick’s quiet, it’s important. “This is what he wants.” 

  
  


“ No, it’s what he  _ thinks _ he wants, he doesn’t--” He shakes his head, and rubs his hands over his face. “Patrick, he doesn’t  _ get  _ it, it’s not--it’s not...fun, or cool, or--” 

  
  


“ You think he wants to do it because he thinks it’s gonna be fun?” Patrick cuts him off, and shakes his head. “He wants to do it because he wants to be with you, you fucking idiot. He wants to be able to keep up with you, and be on the same level as you, and he  _ can’t. _ ” 

  
  


“So why don’t you want it, then?”  Joe snaps, and Patrick’s mouth snaps shut. There’s a thick, poignant silence where Joe realizes that this isn’t a subject Patrick’s ever wanted to breach, and Patrick stares at the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is a little broken, and a little defeated, and it hurts a little to hear it. 

  
  


“You guys...have it all figured out. You and Andy, you know for sure that--that you’re it for each other, right?” Joe doesn’t hesitate. 

  
  


“Yeah, of course.” And it’s true. Even before the whole, y’know, almost dying and getting turned into one of the fucking undead, thing, Joe had known. Andy was it. Andy was that kind of love people look for in books and movies and shit. That had never been a question. Patrick nods. 

  
  


“ Yeah, well. Not all of us are...are that lucky, and--” He shrugs, and ducks his head, and Joe’s struck by how  _ small _ he looks, and then it hits him. “And I don’t want--people to end up stuck in things they don’t really--” 

  
  


“ You think Pete doesn’t love you.” He says, half in shock, half  _ angry _ , and Patrick is silent. Joe huffs out something harsher than a laugh, and shakes his head, disbelieving. “Jesus fucking christ, Patrick, are you kidding me?” 

  
  


“Joe--” 

  
  


“ That stupid motherfucker has been head over heels for you since the day you opened the door to your mom’s house in a pair of fucking shorts and a fucking argyle sweater, you stupid fuck.” And scratch that, he’s not angry, he’s fucking  _ furious _ , and he knows he’s getting a little too uppity about this, but fuck it. Patrick’s shoulders are shifting in farther, and Joe leans forward and reaches out, curls his hands around Patrick’s cheeks and forces him to look at him. “Patrick, listen to me. Whatever you think about yourself, and what you deserve, and what you are, Pete thinks you’re  _ amazing. _ Pete thinks that you’re the light of his fucking life, because you fucking are.” 

  
  


“He doesn’t know--” 

  
  


“ What he’s talking about? Yes, he does. It’s been  _ six years. _ ”  Joe shakes his head. “I’m not saying you should do it, because you shouldn’t, because it sucks, but I’m saying that if you’re not doing it because you think Pete’s not ready to love you for the rest of his very, very long life, you’re  _ wrong _ .” His hands drop, and his shoulders slump a little, and Patrick bites his lip. “You make him  _ better _ , Patrick. You--you make him--maybe not  _ okay _ , but--but closer than he usually is. And that’s--that’s something fucking special.” 

  
  


Patrick looks back at the floor, and nods, slowly. They’re quiet, for a long time, with Patrick staring at his shoes like they’re going to give him all the answers, and Joe staring at Patrick like he’s going to do the same, and eventually Patrick sighs. 

  
  


“Then--think about it like this.” He says evenly, and looks up at Joe. “Do you ever want to have to live without Andy?” Patrick shrugs, and stands up, laying a hand on Joe’s shoulder as he leaves. “Food for thought.” 

  
  


The door clicks behind him, and Joe doesn’t move. 

  
  


Joe doesn’t move for a very, very long time. 

  
  


\--

  
  


It’s raining out; hard, thick, wet drops that completely obscure the sun, even though it’s, like, two in the afternoon, and Gabe tugs his knees up to his chest, and stares out the window, and definitely does not look for the slope of William’s shoulders on the street. 

  
  


“You good, bro?” Ryland’s voice trembles a little, because he’s worried, probably because Gabe’s fucking looking dramatically out the window in the rain, and Gabe grins as he turns around. 

  
  


“Yeah, man, I’m good.” Ry bites the inside of his cheek, and shifts his grip on the pile of blankets he’s carrying. 

  
  


“Maybe he’ll come.” Gabe rolls his eyes. 

  
  


“I doubt it.” It’s been two weeks, and he’s heard nothing, except one phone call from Travie, and a short conversation with Pete. Ryland shrugs, and walks past up the stairs, bumping Gabe’s shoulder with his hip before making his way to the second floor. Gabe waves an absent, appreciative hand at him as he disappears, and then turns back, resting his temple against the cold glass. 

  
  


He’s so focused on the way the rain drips down onto the windowsill outside, he doesn’t hear it at first, the soft knocking at the front door, and he steps over to it almost in a daze, barely aware of the fact that he’s moving until the door is open, and he’s confronted with a tall brunette with long hair that falls over his face in a wet swath and bony, slanted shoulders. 

  
  


Gabe blinks, and William looks up, his face all dark circles and sunken cheeks and bright, bright eyes as his mouth twists into the smallest of smiles. 

  
  


“Did I wait too long?” He asks, like it’s a joke, but there’s a tremor underneath the lightness of his tone. “I had some stuff to sort out, back home, and then buying a ticket was a bitch, and--”

  
  


Gabe’s not really an advocate for shutting people up by kissing them, he considers it dehumanizing and rude, but this is an exception. 

  
  


William tastes like ice cold rain and fresh air and coconuts, and Gabe loves him. 

  
  


Gabe loves him so fucking much. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Patrick sits down on the couch next to Pete, and Pete immediately crawls bodily into his lap, curling up against his chest like he belongs there. Patrick slides his fingers into the slightly greasy but somewhat soft mess of Pete’s hair, and kisses his forehead, stroking his thumb over his jaw, and wonders if maybe he does. 

  
  


“D’you think he’s gonna do it?” Pete mumbles, and Patrick shrugs. 

  
  


“It’s up to him.” He looks down at Pete, with his dark circles and his shitty eyeliner and his stupid hoodie. “Would you?” 

  
  


Pete looks up from where his head’s pillowed on Patrick’s collarbone, and bites his lip. He’s small, like this, with his fingers hidden under his sleeves, and his eyes wide, and Patrick loves him. 

  
  


“Do...do you want that?” He asks, haltingly, and Patrick thinks about it, thinks about the comfortable weight of Pete in his arms and the way he fits against his chest and the soft sound of Pete’s breathing at three in the morning. 

  
  


And he thinks about every movie and book he’s ever seen or read about teenagers jumping into things too quick and regretting it later, and people not getting to live while they could, and all the places he’s wanted to see the sun in. 

  
  


“Someday, maybe.” He says, and Pete nods, slowly. “It’s not like everything’s gotta change, like, right this minute, right?” 

  
  


Pete’s quiet for a second, and then leans up, kissing Patrick’s cheek. 

  
  


“Okay.” He sinks back down smiling a little, and Patrick presses his nose into his hair. “Gabe called.” That’s new. 

  
  


“What?”

  
  


“Yeah. He’s--he’s back in Jersey.” Pete’s voice is soft, and a little small, and maybe even a little hurt, and Patrick nudges their noses together. 

  
  


“How’s he doing?” Pete shrugs. 

  
  


“He’s good. He’s at Ryland’s. He--he said Bill’s not doing great.” There’s really no helping the way his thumb tightens, just for a moment, around Pete’s jaw, because Pete might be ready to forgive, Pete might be ready to welcome William back with open arms, but Patrick is far, far from ready. Pete reaches up, and lays his stupid, black nail polish fingers over Patrick’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. 

  
  


At least Gabe called, Patrick thinks, at least there’s that.

  
  


Maybe they’ll be okay.

  
  


\--

  
  


Joe and Andy sit on the edge of Joe’s coffin, with their thighs almost touching, close enough for Joe to feel Andy’s warmth against his leg, but not quite there, yet. Joe’s never wanted anything more than he wants to close that distance. 

  
  


Andy’s hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but the front is too short, and it’s falling in his face, and his labret isn’t silver, today, so that’s good. Maybe he’s not mad.

  
  


“Are you mad?” Joe asks, and Andy shakes his head. 

  
  


“There’s nothing to be mad about.” He says, and his voice is soft, and light. He turns toward Joe and smiles at him, and the light catches off his glasses. Joe gives in to his baser instinct, and shifts closer, leaning into Andy’s side, and turning to press his face into his shoulder. 

  
  


“I missed you.” Andy turns, and kisses his forehead, moving one hand over to tangle their fingers together. 

  
  


“I missed you, too.” He murmurs, and Joe swallows, thickly. “You don’t have to turn me. If you don’t want to.” He shrugs, and his tone is as nonchalant as it ever is, but there’s something like hurt underneath that Joe can feel eating at his stomach. “I get it. I really do.” 

  
  


“It’s not--” Joe bites his lip. “I never--want to live without you, I wanna spend the rest of my...unnaturally long life with you, but.” He closes his eyes. “But you need to be sure that this is what you want, because if--if it isn’t, then it’s fucked, right?”

  
  


There’s a beat ,and then Andy shifts, slowly, and rests his cheek against the top of Joe’s head.   
  
“ You know I want you forever, right?” Joe closes his eyes, and nods, slowly, because he’s got enough self esteem issues to fill several books, but at least he knows this. “And you know you want me forever.” He nods again, and Andy reaches down, and hooks his fingers under Joe’s chin, tilting his face up so they can make eye contact. “It doesn’t have to be now.” He murmurs, and shakes his head so their noses brush. “But if we both know what we want, then I’m sure.” 

  
  


Joe kisses him, which is probably stupid, because all of their problems probably can’t be solved with kissing, but Andy’s lips are warm, and Andy’s hand is curled around the side of his neck, and Andy’s  _ here _ , and  _ his _ , and is probably gonna be that way forever, so, yeah. 

  
  


Joe figures kissing is a good response. 

  
  
  


Epilogue : One Year Later

  
  


“ They’re closing the Dollar General on 8th.”  
  
“ _ What _ .” 

  
  


“Yup.” 

  
  


Pete groans, dramatically, and flops down onto the couch with a dull thump, landing on top of the pile of clothes Joe’s folding. Joe scowls. 

  
  


“Is that really necessary?” Pete looks up at him, eyeliner a little smudged, and face dead (hah, get it) serious. 

  
  


“Joe.” He hisses, and widens his eyes. “Dollar. General. Closing.” With a long-suffering sigh, Patrick plops down on the other end of the couch. 

  
  


“ This means so many bad things.” He intones gloomily, and Andy scoffs from where he’s reading  _ League of Extraordinary Gentlemen _ for literally the fiftieth time. 

  
  


“What bad things does this mean, exactly.” 

  
  


“Getting up before nine if we wanna get food.” Pete says, ticking them off on his fingers. “Getting up before Shop-Rite closes. Getting--getting up.” He makes a loud, high-pitched wailing noise, and presses his face into a small, carefully folded pile of Joe’s boxers. 

  
  


“ I can do the shopping. I wake up earlier, anyway.” Andy says, and shrugs, and the chorus of three indignant teenage vampires shouting ‘ _ NO'  _ can probably be heard from two houses over. 

  
  


“Absolutely not.” Pete hisses, and rolls over, knocking even more of Joe’s shit on the floor so he can point a long, accusing finger at Andy. “I am not eating wheat grass, again.” 

  
  


“Ever again.” Patrick chimes in, and sighs, again, sinking farther into the couch. “This is the worst.” Joe gives up on his laundry as Pete begins to writhe theatrically, moaning softly to Patrick about slushies, while Joe shuffles across to where Andy’s curled in the cushy armchair Travie gave them. He plucks the comic out of his fingers, and places it carefully on the floor next to them, crawling deftly up into his lap, and steadying himself on the back of the chair. Andy’s hands come up automatically, resting on his side and his lower back, and he kisses Joe’s shoulder. 

  
  


“If we let you shop, will you buy me Ho-Ho’s?” Joe mumbles, and Andy looks up at him, mouth pressed into a tight line, and Joe grins. “I love you?” 

  
  


“Still no!” Pete calls, as he tumbles to the floor in a flurry of Joe’s t-shirts, and Joe rolls his eyes. 

  
  


“Love you, too.” Andy mutters, nudging his nose against Joe’s cheek. “And maybe we can get Gabe to do it.” Pete’s head jerks up, and he grins, wide, and wild. 

  
  


“ _ YES _ .” 

  
  


Joe looks at Patrick, and Patrick looks at Joe, and then Andy looks at Joe, and they all shrug. 

  
  


“Fine.” Patrick says, and Pete scrambles up off the floor in search of his sidekick, significantly more excited than he should be about getting Gabe to pick up their groceries. 

  
  


Patrick grumbles something softly to himself, and pushes up off the couch to go after Pete, and Joe grins, and ducks his head, pressing his face into Andy’s neck while Andy’s finger slide up, curling into his hair. 

  
  


“We’re a vampire family.” He mumbles, and Andy’s laugh is like the sunshine he barely even misses anymore. 

  
  


It’s perfect. 

  
  
  


 

 

 


End file.
